In the Garden of Beasts
by Imperium42
Summary: Set after the final episode. As Roy prepares to make his bid for the title of Fuhrer, a familiar rival sabotages the plans he's worked for years to set in place. Meanwhile, Ed and Al set out on separate journeys that will reunite them with old allies, pit them against new rivals, and change everything they thought they knew about alchemy. Royai, Ed/Winry, and a bit of Roy/Olivier


_**In the Garden of Beasts**_

 **Chapter 1: Serpent's Nest**

 **Roy**

The rain formed a steady drumbeat on Roy Mustang's office window, one which he absentmindedly kept time to with the tapping of his boot on the smooth wooden floor. His pen darting back and forth across the endless stack of papers almost of its own accord by this point in the evening, Roy fumbled into his coat pocket for his silver pocket watch with his free hand and glanced at the time. _Less than an hour before the reception starts. She'll be here to check on me any minute._ Redoubling his effort to finish the pile of action reports, transfer rosters, and supply requests which had been silently menacing him since this morning by then, he furrowed his brows and tensed his hand, pressing through one signature after another, checkmark after checkmark, until the end of the stack was finally in sight, and- s _plat._

 _Shit. Too tense._

An unsightly glob of black ink had managed to burst from his fountain pen onto the report in front of him, and it was with a sinking feeling that Roy watched it seep all too quickly into the rest of the papers beneath it. For a moment the Flame Alchemist was almost aggravated enough to reduce the whole pile to cinders and pretend an aide had misplaced them, but Riza would scold him for that. _Like I'm not due for that anyway._

Chuckling softly to himself, he conceded defeat on the entire endeavor, stretched, and stood to watch the rain as it pattered on the glass. Beneath him, soldiers and dignitaries alike were busy scurrying about the courtyard of Central Command like so many ants, making frantic, last-minute preparations for the upcoming summit; the foreign dignitaries would begin arriving shortly now. Then his eyes drifted to the center of the yard, as they always did, and his mood sobered. Two years. It was hard for him to believe that it had only been two years since they defeated Father on that very spot, two years since the end of the homunculi menace.

A large, roughly circular patch of differently colored stone- repaved where the heat of combat had torn the ground apart- was the only visible marker left from the final clash. The difference was slight enough that it was almost imperceptible from the ground, but Roy couldn't look outside without being reminded of a battle he could only remember through sound and touch and the smell of acrid smoke. _Fullmetal screaming. Stone cracking and tearing. Mortar fire and gunshots. Her hand on my shoulder and her voice in my ear._ He paused at that last memory and smiled softly to himself, his gaze drifting toward the far grey horizon.

A short rap on the door brought him swiftly back to reality, but as it creaked open behind him, he knew from the knock's familiar tone that there was no need to be startled. _On cue, as always._

"Brigadier general."

The corner of his mouth tugged downwards. It had been almost half a year since his promotion, but the rank still sounded strange to Roy, even from her lips.

"Captain."

That one would certainly take some getting used to as well. Grumman had eventually relented and acknowledged the merits of Riza's actions on the Promised Day, even if it took a year of gentle persuasion on Roy's part. She could have easily chosen a more glamorous assignment afterward, and part of him had been worried she would, but here she was, her mouth drawn into an imperceptible line and one eyebrow cocked as she surveyed his valiant attempt at bureaucracy.

"Fighting a losing battle?"

"Losing? I've sounded the retreat by now." He grinned, stepping away from the window and rounding his desk. "Will you ride in to save me, captain?"

She narrowed her eyes; only the far corner of her mouth tugged up in the hint of a smile, and even then, only for a moment. That was more than enough for him to declare a silent victory, though.

"You have thirty minutes before the Fuhrer expects us all in the main hall, and you still haven't dressed- or shaven, apparently. I reminded you this morning, didn't I?"

"What's wrong with my uniform?" He asked sullenly as he sauntered off to the office's adjoining washroom. "You're not wearing anything fancy."

"Dress uniform is required for officers above major rank tonight." He could hear a vague hint of smugness in her tone as it drifted around the corner. _Dodged that bullet, did you, Hawkeye?_ "Or did you forget that I reminded you of that this morning as well?"

Fetching his straight razor and brush from the medicine cabinet, he winced at that last remark.

"I might have been… a bit out of sorts until around noon today, but that was entirely Jean's fault." Roy had been roped into drinking with Breda and Havoc last night to celebrate the latter's newest girlfriend, and may have stayed out far later than intended- or at least, far later than a brigadier general with a peace summit the next day should have.

"That's what you always say, col- hm. Brigadier general."

"Old habits die hard for both of us, huh, captain?" He couldn't help but smirk as he inspected his stubble in the mirror. "You know, it's rare that you meet a man who's made it to general who doesn't at least have a mustache. They say facial hair projects experience, or something like that. What do you say I just go ahead and get a head start now?"

Riza made a slight noise from the other room that was somewhere between amusement and annoyance. Roughly translated, it meant something to the effect of _don't you even think about it, Roy Mustang._

"And what if I do think about it, captain?" Already lathering his chin and jaw, he was just teasing her now, seeing how much fun he could have before an evening full of stiff, tedious pleasantries. "You going to come in here and shave me yourself if I protest?"

"Wouldn't be the first time. Though I can't promise you wouldn't get cut again."

Holding the blade to his cheek, his smile grew as he remembered. In the time between the final battle and Marcoh's restoration of his sight with a philosopher's stone- a stretch of days no more than a week which had seemed endless to him regardless- she and Breda and Falman had helped him adjust to a great number of things, when he thought the blindness would be permanent. Roy's men could rarely be persuaded to leave his side during that time, even for the sake of food and rest, but whenever they did depart, she had still been there for him as he tried to piece back together some semblance of normalcy in his daily life, largely through sheer trial and error. It hadn't taken them long, for instance, to discover that Riza was no talent with a razor, as half a dozen accidental nicks under his chin had proven. Coincidentally, he had learned rather quickly to do it himself soon afterward, and to this day he only used a mirror out of force of habit.

"I still think half of those were intentional, you know."

"Oh? Me, intentionally harming a superior officer? That's a serious charge, brigadier general."

This time, he turned around in time to actually see her smug grin rather than just hear it, tossing the used towel over his shoulder and running a hand along his now-smooth chin as he stepped back out into the office.

"It certainly is, captain. And when have I ever given you reason to harm me?"

Riza's grin faded, and she casually rested her right palm on the holstered pistol at her belt.

"You're about to give me one right now if you don't go get dressed."

* * *

To describe the military's new dress uniform as "stuffy", "frivolous," or "overbearing" would be a severe understatement, as far as Roy Mustang was concerned. He'd called up Fuery and Falman to help him with the frills- the _frills,_ for god's sake- and now, as he stood before a body-length mirror, gazing dejectedly at his reflection, the two were still doubled over with laughter in the far corner of the room.

The Amestrisian dress uniform was patterned after the nation's flag- its primary material was a forest green shade of velvet rather than the standard blue military fabric, with silver buckles and buttons instead of gold. The chest was divided diagonally by an intricately patterned sash, and capped on either shoulder with silver epaulettes. Atop Roy's head was a cylindrical black shako cap, fronted with a silver Amestrisian dragon and topped with a tall plume of dark green and black feathers.

"I… feel like some kind of toy soldier," he finally managed, turning to face his subordinates with a flush of embarrassed color on his cheeks. "Do you think they'll understand if I at least leave off the hat?"

"No way, brigadier general," Fuery replied, wiping tears from his eyes. "It really brings it the whole outfit together, I promise!"

Riza's familiar knock sounded at the door of Mustang's quarters, and his eyes widened in horror. Before he could call out to Hawkeye not to come in, she was already halfway across the threshold. She remained stoic at first, simply looking him up and down, but when she saw Falman and Fuery, she visibly relaxed, and raised a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle.

"I knew the dress uniform would look _interesting_ on you, brigadier general, but I never imagined it would be quite this… striking."

"I would pay good money to see him wear this every day from here on out," Falman chimed in, clapping a hand on Roy's shoulder. "Breda and Havoc are going to piss themselves. Can we ask the Fuhrer to make this the standard uniform, for brigadier generals only?"

"Well then I'd just have to get promoted again, wouldn't I?" Roy countered, marching out of the room and in the direction of the main hall as the others fell in behind him. "I think I know what my first official act as Fuhrer will be."

"But you already promised Jean that the mini-skirts for all female officers would come first, remem- ow!"

A sharp kick to the shin from Riza cut Falman off midsentence as they reached a fork in Central Command's winding hallways, and she motioned for the two junior officers to follow her to the left as Roy started off to the right.

"Come on, we're in a different section than the generals. And double time it, we're almost late- that goes for you too!"

Even though he'd already rounded the next corner, he knew that last quip was meant for him, and so it was with a soft grin that Roy entered the palace's cavernous grand audience chamber, a massive, multi-tiered hall with grey marble floors that stood out against towering black basalt pillars, each one draped with Amestrisian banners. A massive stretch of burgundy carpet fringed with gold had been rolled out for the occasion, and stretched the length of the entire hall, from the doors all the way to the throne which King Bradley had so recently occupied. Grumman sat there now, visible even from a distance, watching smugly over the hundreds of officers taking their places in orderly formations dictated by rank and battalion on either side of the hall. Behind the soldiers, on each tier of the chamber, stretched rows of tables overflowing with all manner of food and drink from across Amestris and beyond.

As an officer above major rank, he had been assigned a place on the highest of the room's tiers, directly beneath the throne, and as such he had access to the most luxurious and exotic spread of food and drink of anyone in attendance. The sight of an entire roast boar and easily half a dozen pitchers of of wine and ale at the nearest table set Roy's stomach grumbling and his mouth watering as he eased his way into the crowd, nodding politely to the other officers as he passed them by. _If I can find a seat at the head of the room near Grumman, I'll be able to gather the most information…_

"You look absolutely magnificent in dress uniform, brigadier general!" Cried a voice muffled by the chatter of the crowd, and Roy could barely conceal a grimace as he pivoted to endure another officer's sarcastic assessment of how he looked.

Before he could fit a word in edgewise, though, he was swept up in a bear hug, and it didn't take long for him to realize that there was no need be offended. Alex Louis Armstrong's mustachioed face was beaming down at him when his feet finally touched the floor again, his cheeks already slightly flushed from drink- most of the officers on this tier were on their second goblet of wine by now. Commended for his exemplary performance on the Promised Day, Armstrong had been promoted just weeks afterward, the disciplinary infraction he received for his insubordination during the Ishvalan War scrubbed from his record. The sight of his hulking figure in the gaudy green velvet and silver of the dress uniform, with an undersized feathered cap perched atop his head, was enough to raise Roy's spirits to heights they hadn't seen in quite some time, and Alex's jovial demeanor quickly became contagious.

"I don't look half as dashing as you, lieutenant colonel. It's been too long!"

It was the truth- though they were both based out of Central, Roy had spent so much time in the East focusing on his Ishvalan project over the past two years that he had hardly seen Armstrong- or Fullmetal and his brother, for that matter, who had mostly stayed cooped up in Resembool.

"It has been! Come stand with us, Roy, we absolutely must catch up!"

The lieutenant colonel gestured vaguely in a direction opposite to the throne and Grumman; Roy opened his mouth to protest, but with Alex's burly arm wrapped around his shoulder, there was little he could do to change his course, and for the second time inside an hour, he grudgingly conceded defeat. When they finally reached their destination, a slight opening in the throng of officers beneath one of the columns, it quickly became apparent who "we" were- Olivier Mira Armstrong watched the two men with a bemused expression as they made their way towards her, her hand resting idly at the hilt of her saber. Of all the dozens of officers on the highest tier, Roy realized, she was the only one who came anything close to making the dress uniform look good; her long blonde hair spilled out from beneath her own cap in a neat wave, and there was something so commanding about her presence that she seemed to be forcing the gaudy outfit to work through of sheer strength of will.

"General Mustang- a pleasure, as always." The Ice Queen of Briggs extended a gloved hand toward him, her blue eyes gleaming like those of a hawk circling its prey. A full general now, she hadn't exactly been subtle over the past two years when it came to concealing the fact that she too was wholly intent on claiming the title of Fuhrer after Grumman's inevitable retirement. _Technically speaking, she's got a massive head start on me,_ he mused, his eyes drifting over the prominent silver rank insignias on her chest and forearms, _but I have personal ties to Grumman, so it's essentially an even match._

"To you as well, General Armstrong. How fares our Northern Wall?" He offered his own hand in turn, only to nearly stumble off balance when she snatched it into a viselike grip that threatened to snap his fingers like so many toothpicks, and yanked it towards her, her voice low.

"Stronger than ever, general. I wonder if the same can be said about you." She released her grip and flashed him a congenial smile as he regained his composure. Momentarily distracted by another passing colonel he recognized, Alex remained oblivious to the brief, tense exchange. "But I have to say, I appreciate these little sojourns to Central. This palace is beginning to grow on me- I don't think it'll be long until I'm here much more often, after all."

Roy raised a brow in suspicion, hiding his expression behind a goblet as he took a deep draw of wine. _She's gunning for a transfer to Central? And to be so brazen about it?_

"I can't say I'm not surprised, general. I thought you were far too attached to your men up at Briggs to ever consider requesting a reassignment."

Olivier actually laughed aloud at that- a rare sight even among her family, judging from Alex's wide-eyed expression, and gently laid a hand on Roy's shoulder, a simple gesture that was somehow far more disconcerting than her forceful handshake.

"No, darling, not a reassignment."

"A promotion." Another voice spoke up from behind Roy; he could scarcely hide his surprise when he turned to face the source. With his ponytail undone, Miles' white hair flowed neatly down to his shoulders from beneath his shako, and Roy might have been hard pressed to recognize him without his distinctive, angular sideburns. He had removed his glasses for the evening's festivities as well, although aside from sheer force of habit, he had no pressing need to wear them regardless; Roy had worked tirelessly in the past two years to ensure that red Ishvalan eyes were no longer a badge of shame to be hidden. In fact, it was through his sway with Grumman that Miles had been promoted to lieutenant colonel for his work helping Mustang restore Ishval, the first of his people in Amestris' history to reach the rank.

"You haven't heard?" Though the pair had barely seen each other since he departed for the East, Miles sidestepped Roy and took his old place at the Ice Queen's side without a moment's hesitation, a shadow of a grin on his face. "The Fuhrer and his command staff are considering elevating General Armstrong to the rank of field marshal."

Roy choked mid-swig at that, and barely avoided splashing wine on his immaculate collar. _Field marshal?! Is he joking?_

"I… but… we haven't used that rank since before the Ishvalan War," he finally managed, wracking his brain for the memories of his old military history classes at the academy. "Amestris hasn't had a field marshal in almost twenty years."

"Well, if General Armstrong maintains her excellent standard of performance, you're looking at our next one," Miles replied, unable to conceal his smirk any longer. "I'm surprised you hadn't heard by now."

 _I was a fool to think that I could bring him over to my side of this,_ Roy knew, his stomach sinking. For much of the past two years, he had made an active effort try and win Miles' trust whenever they were both in the East, knowing he would be a powerful asset if the struggle for the title of Fuhrer ever turned violent. _But after all the work we've done together, for him to run back to her so quickly…_ It stung, but that was his just reward for underestimating the loyalty of a Briggs soldier.

"I can think of no one more deserving of such an honor than my dear sister!" Chimed in Alex, cutting through the conversation's latent tension with his earnest bombacity. "General Mustang, I'm sure that if Olivier is promoted, you two will get along splendidly whenever she's here at Central! You and I can show her around together!"

 _He really doesn't realize, does he?_ Roy forced a smile.

"Of course, I'd be happy to give her the grand tour. She's been in the North so long, I'm sure she's forgotten where all the best pubs are."

Olivier opened her mouth to respond, but was cut off when the sound of bugles cut through the air. _The signal for us to take our places- the delegates are about to arrive._ With all the precision and efficiency expected of the Amestrisian military, the officers and soldiers on each tier of the chamber set down their goblets, ceased their idle conversations, and wordlessly shifted into precise, rectangular formations dictated by rank, facing the middle of the room. The group of officers they had been standing in coalesced into the first row of their formation, giving the group a clear view for the proceedings to come. Roy attempted to sidle into a spot next to Alex and away from his sister, but Miles outmaneuvered him even at this, blocking the way and forcing him into the corner of the row next to Olivier. Their eyes met as he reluctantly took his place, and her gaze seemed to pierce straight through him, gleaming with the same, predatory light as before. She didn't say a word, but her message was crystal clear. _I've won, Mustang, so best to stop trying now._

All eyes turned to the Fuhrer when the shuffling was finished, though. His personal dress uniform was a vast improvement from the one designated for ordinary officers, Roy noted. All in black, it was more much more reserved design, with silver and gold ornamentations and a standard black military cap rather than the tall, feathered monstrosities which dominated the top tier of the hall. _Just another reason to keep to the current plan, Armstrong be damned._ Once the room had grown still and silent, Grumman stood from the throne and stepped up to a microphone array, surrounded by a small band of his closest personal adjutants. All at once, six hundred men and women snapped to attention; the thump of boots echoed across the stone walls.

"Soldiers of Amestris," he began, his voice crackling slightly at first over the newly installed speakers before coming into focus. His words were being broadcast to military radios all across Central as well as to the officers in attendance. "At ease. Tonight, we are representatives of our great nation on the international stage. Tonight, we have a chance to right some of the wrongs inflicted by our former leaders, and to ensure that the fallen of our wars with our neighboring powers did not die in vain. I trust that every soldier here and throughout our capital city will do their due diligence in showing our visitors all the dignity, sincerity, courtesy, and that we have to offer as a nation and as a people, as is the responsibility borne by your commission. Make me proud, but more importantly, make the people of Amestris proud. That is all."

The moment he stepped back from the microphone, bands nestled in high galleries on either side of the chamber struck up a lively festive march, and on cue the massive oaken doors at the far end of the hall creaked open, allowing the orderly procession of foreign dignitaries to begin their grand entrance. Tonight's reception was the opening event for a three-day summit to finalize the details of peace negotiations between Amestris and its three neighbors, Creta, Aerugo, and Drachma, though a small delegation from Xing were also present as observers. A culmination of two years of efforts to undo the damage to Amestris' international standing caused by the previous government's desire to carve crests of blood through warfare, the summit would be the ultimate test of Grumman's new administration- and a perfect opportunity for Roy to set himself apart in his mentor's eyes as a more capable diplomat than Armstrong. _This is my arena- time to strike the first blow._

* * *

An hour later, the reception was in full swing, and orderly formations had given way to casual mingling and conversation between the hosts and visitors, as some stood and others sat at the tables, talking while they ate. Roy had made a beeline away from Olivier and Miles at the first opportunity, but Alex was still tagging along nearby as he chatted idly with a group of Aerugans over a plate of roast duck and glazed carrots that was honestly commanding more of his attention than the diplomats. _I knew most of it would be boring, but this is just torture._ He was currently doing his best to seem interested in a trade official's opinions on how high the new tariffs for grain and aluminum between Amestris and Aerugo should be, mostly relying on a mouthful of food to excuse himself from contributing anything besides polite nods.

"Ah, but if we broach the topic of olive oil as well as grain," the man was saying in a thickly accented voice, "the issue becomes truly complicated! I understand that you can produce very little of it here, with the climate as it is, but we-"

"Ah, Giorgio, there you are! What are you doing, boring one of the most famous men in Amestris with talk of oil and wheat?"

Nearly choking on a bite of duck, Roy shot to his feet and rushed into a deep bow, attempting to contain his surprise as a new group of Aerugan nobles approached the table, a familiar face at their head.

"Prince Claudio, it's an honor!"

Prince Claudio Rico II of Aerugo simply laughed at this formality, and gestured for Mustang to stand upright again. He was a strikingly handsome man, still relatively youthful, with bright eyes and a shock of chestnut hair beneath a simple, unadorned bronze circlet that served as his badge of office. He wore a midnight blue military coat with golden epaulettes over a vest of crimson velvet, with a dark red half-cape that draped over one shoulder to match.

"Now now, I'll have none of that pageantry. We're all here as equals, aren't we?" His voice was pleasant and lightly accented, and his tone seemed sincere. _I had decided not to seek out any of the heads of state for fear of appearing too overtly ambitious,_ Roy mused, _but one has found me, it seems._

"Of course, your highness. I trust you've been enjoying your evening so far?"

"It's been a delight, though I must say, Amestrisian wine is somewhat lacking- a good thing that your markets will have access to ours again soon. But forget about that- I'd rather talk about you. You are the Flame Alchemist, yes, Roy Mustang?"

"Yes, your highness, I am." To be personally sought out? This was even more unexpected; Roy's head was spinning, but he managed to keep the sentiment on the inside.

"We've heard so much about you in Aerugo, brigadier general! The account of your coup against the homunculus Bradley's government was most fascinating, though I must admit I was surprised that you didn't seize the title of Fuhrer for yourself after the battle was over- surely, it was within your grasp."

"I tell myself the same thing sometimes," Roy replied truthfully, "but I think that such a naked power grab so soon after Bradley's fall would only have risked more violence. The blindness hardly helped either; by the time I regained my sight, General Grumman had already returned to Central and made his bid."

"And now you and Lady Armstrong watch his every move with covetous eyes," the Prince finished with a grin. "Politics are a drag, though. Speaking of your blindness, I think I have someone who's very much been looking forward to meeting you. This is Master Gorlamo Federo, one of my official advisors."

A second man stepped forward from the Prince's group and bowed his head politely. Bearing an elegant black cane capped with a gold Aerugan eagle, this man had the same regal air as the Prince about him, and sported a neatly trimmed black goatee and mustache beneath his aquiline nose.

"A shame that you were the only one of the sacrifices who could make it to the summit. I was very much looking forward to meeting the one of the Elric brothers or Madam Curtis here as well."

At that, Roy bristled, unable to hide a frown that flashed across his face. _Does he see me as some sort of museum curiosity?_

"Forgive me, but that's not a subject which I particularly enjoy discussing, Master Federo. It was an unpleasant experience."

Gorlamo bowed his head deeply, and clasped his hands in apology- it was then that Roy first noticed the transmutation circles embroidered in golden thread on his black gloves, and his eyes widened in understanding. Unlike Amestris, Aerugo forbade its alchemists from service in the military out of fears that they would seize control of the government; they instead operated out of a variety of competing guilds that offered their services to the public and government alike. Guild members were only permitted to use alchemy for combat when licensed to do as part of an official contract, or in self-defense. As such, Federo wore an elegant civilian dress uniform that stood out from the sea of military coats around him, his sable half cloak emblazoned with the three crossed spears of the Rossi Guild, currently Aerugo's largest. _In retrospect, that should probably have tipped me off earlier._

"A thousand pardons, General Mustang. I'm sure Prince Claudio can attest to the fact that my frankness can sometimes be offputting, but if there is something I wish to discuss, then I see no point in beating about the bush. It was not my intent to offend you- as the Prince's court alchemist, though, I must admit I have spent the past two years fascinated by the accounts of your battle with this homunculus you call 'Father'. To think that a being could use a mere five souls to rend fifty million from the mortal plane… it changes everything we thought we knew about transmutation."

"I hope you're not implying that you intend to follow his example," Roy replied as evenly as he could manage, his patience once again waning. The last thing the region needed was another nation's government to be seduced by the allure of 'immortality'. "We're still suffering the costs of the homunculi's attempt at godhood, and will be for years to come. What they did is not something to be casually mimicked."

"Not mimicked, Flame Alchemist. My goodness, no- merely understood, that we may prevent such attempts from occurring again. Surely you must understand my natural curiosity, as an outsider who merely bore witness to the events of _Giorno Dell'eclissi-_ the Promised Day, I believe you call it here. I still remember the reports from our soldiers at the frontlines on our shared border. In the midst of a surprise attack on our lines, every last Amestrisian soldier suddenly dropped lifeless to the ground, with no wounds from bullets or cannon fire to speak of. After a moment of confusion, our men emerged from their trenches to investigate, only to find the bodies rising back to life just minutes later. An impromptu ceasefire was called the same day, and then, the reports from your capital began to pour in. My guild was transfixed by what we heard; it was nothing short of miraculous. I knew I had to come see for myself. And I can assure you, it's not just us. I've been in contact with the Alchemical College of Creta, and my colleagues there feel the same way. I'm sure some are here tonight as well."

Suddenly Roy's head was spinning all over again, and he felt compelled to sip deeply from his goblet- now filled with ale- before he spoke again.

"I… suppose I never thought of it quite that way." _Come on, Roy, be diplomatic. Make an impression._ "I've certainly fielded a great number of questions about my experience from our own alchemists, but I had no idea that we made such an impression abroad as well. Is… there anything I can do to be of help?"

"I believe I've troubled you enough for tonight, brigadier general," Gorlamo replied thoughtfully, stroking his goatee. "I'm sure you have many more important guests to attend to than myself. But before the end of the summit, if I could perhaps examine your eyes… to see for myself exactly how a philosopher's stone repaired the damage dealt as penance for your forced human transmutation would be a most fascinating opportunity."

A clap on the back from Prince Claudio spared him from the necessity of responding to that last request, thankfully, as the monarch led Roy away from the table.

"I hope you can forgive my court alchemist's high degree of… _enthusiasm_ for his line of work, General Mustang. Master Federo sometimes forgets his manners, but he is peerless in knowledge and skill- to be frank, there is no one I trust more with my personal safety." He glanced around to make sure they were alone before continuing. "Though I must admit, I am curious to see Amestrisian alchemists in action. The laws forbidding their participation in combat in my country are so restrictive- I must admit I am often tempted to change them, but the military would have my head for it. Many guild members who show a particular talent for combat emigrate to Amestris, where there services can be put to better use, as I'm sure you know. Whatever became of Giolio Comanche? The Silver Alchemist, I believe your Fuhrer named him. He was a good friend of Master Federo's, though his guild hasn't heard from him in some time."

"Ah, yes, I remember him." _How delicately can I put this?_ Outside the tight-knit military community, Bradley's government had taken every possible measure to cover up the deaths of the state alchemists murdered by Scar at the height of his rampage, and now that the former killer had been pardoned and even given an unofficial position rebuilding Ishval by Grumman, it had been deemed wise to leave the records sealed. "Well, you see…"

A group of Aerugan generals, who were nearly in tears with boisterous laughter over their conversation with Alex, spared him the burden of either lying or confessing to Claudio when the nearest of the group waved for the Prince to come join them. Their uniforms were largely similar to Claudio's, though they lacked his distinctive half cape. Instead of shakos they wore imposing dragoon helmets with tall golden crests and long black horsehair tails which draped down past their shoulders, and Roy could feel his stomach aching with jealousy. _Havoc will understand if the mini-skirts have to wait- I want those helmets first._

"My Prince, you must look," the one who had called them over began, motioning toward Alex- his accent was thickened by drink, his cheeks flushed. "This one works miracles with his hands! Show them, _messere!"_

Alex boomed with laughter, pulling back his gloves to reveal his spiked metal alchemy gauntlets and taking a silver goblet in hand. "Your majesty, General Mustang- what an honor! I was simply showing these men the _fine tradition of alchemy passed down through the Armstrong family for generations!"_

He put his usual gusto into the last part, before clapping his hands together and transmuting the goblet into a perfectly detailed silver statuette of himself, shirtless and flexing. Claudio and the generals applauded, and Roy couldn't help but chuckle, until he glanced past Alex and made eye contact with Olivier. Not twenty feet away, she was currently raising a toast with the King of Creta and half a dozen of his court advisors- she only returned his gaze for a moment, then visibly shifted it in the direction of the Drachman delegation before turning back to her group. _So we're both making progress in high places. First to make nice with the Tsar of Drachma wins the night, is that it, Armstrong?_

Taking her up on the challenge, Roy turned back to Prince Claudio and promised to find him again the next morning to continue their conversation before leaving him in Alex's capable arms for the moment. The Drachmans had mostly congregated near the front of the room beneath the throne, and Mustang wasted no time heading directly for them. Imposing and grey-bearded, Tsar Alexei IV was easily distinguishable from his generals and advisors by the ostentatiousness of his uniform, the chest of which was covered almost entirely with medals and crosses of various size and shape. A full cape lined with ermine fur draped behind him when he walked, and a rearing bear, the national symbol of Drachma, was stylized in gold on the front of his dark military cap.

Tsar Alexei was talking to the Fuhrer at the moment, and Roy's heart leapt at the sight. _Perfect- Grumman can introduce me, and then…_ Before he could even finish planning what to say, though, the Fuhrer shifted, gesturing towards someone obscured by the crowd, and the Tsar extended his hand to greet the newcomer. Then a general stepped out of the way, and Roy's heart sank as he watched Lieutenant Colonel Miles bow his head and take monarch's hand earnestly.

"I have heard many stories about you!" Alexei was saying, his voice drifting over to where Roy stood, paralyzed, at the edge of the group. "The soldiers of Briggs were always a thorn in my side, but I always had the greatest respect for your conviction. I've never seen a battalion of men so ferocious- besides my own, of course! But you must tell me, how did…"

The conversation faded out of earshot again, but Roy had heard enough to know he had no chance of butting in without running the risk of annoying the Tsar, which would be far worse than making no impression at all. Swearing silently, he doubled back with the intent to return to Prince Claudio with some excuse about thinking he had seen an old friend. This plan was dashed to pieces just as quickly the moment he neared his previous place in the crowd, though. It seemed that Olivier had brought the King of Creta and his entire entourage over to Alex and Prince Claudio, letting the monarchs' generals and adjutants marvel at her brother's alchemy while she conversed in lowered tones with both heads of state at the back of the group. In one fell swoop, she and her lapdog had stolen away the attention of the three most important people in attendance, and for risk of seeming desperate, there was little he could do to naturally ease his way into either circle.

Sliding behind one of the pillars in a quiet corner of the room to collect his thoughts, he resisted the urge to drive his first into the stone, his eyes darting about for some chance- any chance- to regain the upper hand. _You complete and utter fool. She baited you, and you fell for it, hook, line, and sinker._ The room was suddenly much too hot and much too loud, and sweat began to drip down Roy's forehead where there had been none before. He struggled to focus on the faces of the delegates nearby, to make out if he recognized who any of them were, but all the careful studying of the guest list he had done in preparation had abandoned him- the faces refused to match to names. _Is that the Cretan foreign minister? No, no, he has a beard, finance is the clean-shaven one… or was that defense? Think, think!_

Then a strong hand grabbed onto his forearm, and he was staring into Riza's eyes.

"General, you look… lost. What happened? Is everything alright?"

"Captain," he breathed, blinking and dabbing at his forehead with his handkerchief. His heart, which had been pounding, began to slow, and the red began to drain from his face. His thoughts slowly raveled back together. "It's Olivier. She's outmaneuvered me- she has Creta and Aerugo cornered, and Miles snatched Drachma out from under me. At this rate, I don't think I'd be able to get a word in edgewise if I tried to steal one of them back."

She could easily tell how much the situation had rattled him, and for just an instant, genuine worry flashed across her face.

"It's alright, general. I'm here now." Then, just as quickly, Hawkeye the soldier was back, and her mouth set in a hard line. "You're going to be fine, you're just overthinking this. Forget about Creta and Drachma for now- Armstrong hasn't gained any ground with them that you can't make up over the next three days- it's not like she can hold their attention forever. And besides, you made a good first impression with Prince Claudio as far as I could tell; better to leave him wanting more than to make him bored of you. Focusing on Xing is your best bet right now- since they're just here as observers, their delegation has been getting the least attention, and it would be easy for you to win some favor by being courteous. Does all that make sense?"

The world had snapped back into focus, and Roy nodded, a smile on his face again.

"What would I do without you, captain?"

Riza turned away to conceal her grin, and started back off towards the lower tiers.

"I think I'll let you ponder that one, brigadier general. Break a leg."

* * *

Over the next hour, Roy threw his all into being as sociable and hospitable to the Xingese delegation as possible, memorizing the names, clan affiliations, and policy stances of nearly every dignitary that the nation had sent. Most heavily represented were the clans of Cao- the clan of the current emperor- and Wu, a northern family and Xing's second most powerful. As far as he could tell, they were both rivals of Ling's clan, Yao, so Roy ultimately decided to refrain from mentioning him unless asked. He had barely interacted with the young royal, but he'd heard a good deal of stories from Fullmetal about both him and May Chang, who, as of two years ago, at least, hailed from Xing's poorest and least influential clan; bringing them up probably wasn't the best idea either.

Shan Wu, the leader of the delegation, had been surprisingly receptive to Roy's proposals over the course of the night, conceding that a genuine trade agreement might be on the horizon between the two powers, and even that an academic exchange between Amestrisian alchemists and Xingese alkahestrists wasn't entirely impossible.

"It all depends on my emperor's disposition in the end, of course," Shan was saying over his third goblet of wine, his cheeks flushed bright red above his long, neatly groomed grey mustache. He held a rank equivalent to a general in Amestris, and like much of his delegation, he wore verdant, richly decorated robes of silk and velvet, studded with gems and embroidered with the sigil of the emperor, a roaring dragon. "But lately, there have been so many domestic nuisances- upstart clans vying for power, a hard season for crops in the south- I think he will soon be much more receptive to all these proposals than in the past."

"That's excellent to hear. You'll be at the luncheon tomorrow, won't you? Perhaps we can discuss this potential trade agreement in greater detail." Roy put on his most charming smile as he spoke, but on the inside, he was exhausted. The reception was nearly finished, and he'd done his due diligence with Xing- it would be wise to try and get a word or two in with Grumman before the night was over.

"Why of course, General Mustang! I look forward to seeing you there." By this point in the night, Shan seemed to share Roy's sentiments; after a firm handshake, he turned and barked a series of commands to his colleagues in Xingese, and many of them began to rise and ready themselves to depart.

Satisfied with his performance, Roy started off towards the central tier of the chamber, which had been sectioned off midway through the night as a dancefloor; much of the summit's leadership had gathered there by now. As he passed by the rest of the Xingese tables, though, his eyes drifted towards a group of solemn, silent men and women all robed in black, with painted masks beneath their hoods giving them the likeness of demons. The bodyguards of Xing's nobles had always fascinated Roy, perhaps because of their anonymity or their cult-like devotion to their masters- regardless of his own personal curiosity, the emperor's representatives had demanded that their attendance be permitted, as an additional security measure.

The longer Roy watched the somber group, though, the more his passing interest gave way to a sinking feeling of uneasiness deep in the pit of his stomach. He couldn't put his finger on a reason, but something suddenly felt _wrong._ He slowed in his tracks, narrowed his eyes. And then he saw it. Around the farthest member of the group of masked bodyguards, half-shrouded in the shadow of a column, there was a faint _shimmer_ in the air, like the heat distortion of a scorching summer's day. It was all around the hooded figure, like it was consuming them- or exuding from them. But then the table rose to join their masters as they made for the exit, and the guard was lost in the shuffle- the shimmer vanished. Resuming his course, Roy blinked and brought up a gloved hand to massage his heavy eyelids. _Now I'm seeing things, I'm so tired. When I get out of this godforsaken reception, I'm going to pass out standing._

After weaving his way through more than one throng of drunken diplomats, he paused at the top of the stairs leading down to the middle tier, searching the crowds for familiar faces. His heart lifted again- there were Breda and Fuery and Falman, and just beyond them, Fuhrer Grumman and Prince Claudio. All their eyes were on the dancefloor; the orchestra was just finishing up one of Roy's favorite rhapsodies, though most of the men and women on the floor were dancing to its tune far more gracefully than Roy could ever hope to. Before he could start off towards them, though, a hand grabbed hold of his shoulder, holding him in place. _Riza again_ was his first thought, but this wasn't the Captain's comforting grasp.

"Going somewhere in a hurry, general?" _No, no, not her. Anyone but her._

"I… was going to go speak with the Fuhrer, actually. He asked for me, I think."

Olivier's grip tightened. "Don't worry, he's not going anywhere. Dance with me first." There was a razor sharpness to her words. This was a command, not a request. The band had finished the rhapsody, and they were preparing for the final song of the night, a slow waltz. Roy chuckled nervously as she took hold of his hand and began to lead him toward the dancefloor, his mind racing for an excuse.

"Perhaps you haven't heard general, but I was born with two left feet. Just ask any of my men, I'd only embarrass you." That wasn't at all far from the truth, but Olivier didn't accept it regardless, just as he'd known she wouldn't.

"Nonsense, I insist. Just follow my lead."

Before Roy could mumble out another alibi, they were emerging together from the circle of spectators, and the band was striking up the waltz's opening notes. In an instant, he could feel a hundred pairs of eyes rivet to them, and his face flushed with blood as a wave of murmurs rippled around the room. _Everyone in Command besides Alex knows about our rivalry. They all know what this means- she's going to try to cement her victory over me for everyone to see, parade me around like a whipped dog._ He wrapped his hand around her waist, and set his mouth in a determined line. _Which is why I can't afford to waver now._ The music began in earnest, and so did they.

From the moment they started, Olivier tried to take the lead, but some of Roy's renewed resolve had drifted all the way down to his usually clumsy feet, it seemed. To his pleasant surprise, he was able to match her pace as they drifted back and forth across the floor between the other pairs of dancers, though it took nearly every ounce of his concentration just to master the steps and timing. Across from him, she was studying his face with that same hawkish gaze, her expression imperceptible. At this distance, he could smell her perfume, a reserved, vaguely floral aroma with a hint of something northern, maybe spruce or pine, and see the tautness of her muscles against the green velvet of her uniform.

"This is proving to be much more fun than I'd anticipated." She was grinning now, evidently amused that he had been able to keep pace so far. "What happened to those two left feet of yours?"

"Sometimes a beautiful woman is all the medicine you need," he said, and immediately began to wonder why he had. It was an old pickup line that Havoc had taught him at their bar outings, one that tended to get more annoyed looks or exasperated sighs than anything else. This time, the words had simply come unbidden. Surprised at himself, he nearly missed a step, but quickly recovered. Olivier's grin widened in response, and she tilted her head towards him.

"Is it flattery now, General Mustang? You must be truly desperate if that's the best you can do."

The music swelled, and he led her into a twirl as he attempted to think of a proper reply. He glanced over to the crowd of spectators, and for an instant he saw them- Breda, Falman, Fuery, Riza. They were all watching him, spellbound, eyes wide and mouths half agape, the shock on their faces plain- well, all except for the captain, of course, who was as unreadable as ever. Even Grumman seemed to be showing a degree of interest, a mischievous smile playing about beneath his mustache. But then he was back with Olivier just as quickly, and his world was filled with her scent and her eyes and her looming, forceful presence. Even in silence she demanded his attention, and he was far too deep down this hole to be able to break away now.

"If you think this is the best I can do, then you haven't seen anything yet- I can promise you that."

There was a bitterness to his words; the veneer of false courtesy between them had been cast aside entirely now. For a moment Roy thought she might end the dance then and there, but to his dismay she only pulled him in closer, and dropped her voice to a near whisper.

"Little dogs always think they can fight with the big ones. Are you going to try to bite at my heels, little dog? Because I'd hate to have to put you down."

Roy's brows furrowed. Her audacity was staggering.

"You have a short memory, General Armstrong. Perhaps you've forgotten whose coup you backed two years ago- since when does the big dog follow the little one's lead?"

"My dear general, do you really think that I needed your help for that?" She chuckled, her lips curled into a smirk. "You and your men were a convenient distraction at best and a liability at worst. There were a number of things I could have improved about your plan, but taking the time to correct your tactical errors seemed pointless as long as I knew that my forces could still win without you."

"Oh, I'm starting to think there are a great number of things that you might have changed about that day if I'd given you the chance," he shot back, his voice laced with naked contempt. "First of all, I'm sure you would've had it end with everyone in the military kneeling for our new queen."

"Nothing quite so dramatic, I assure you. Although I can't say that I don't enjoy the thought of you on your knees."

Roy turned beet red, attempted to sputter out a reply, and promptly tripped over his own feet, all within the next blur of a moment. It was only after Olivier caught him and pulled him back into position that he realized that she'd finally succeeded in making him lose pace with her, in full view of the crowd- and all it had taken to break his concentration was a single, intentionally timed turn of phrase. He did his best not to look toward the spectators again, too furious at himself to bear seeing his subordinates' reactions. They finished the rest of the dance in relative silence; his near-fall had removed the need for any further verbal sparring.

"I think I'll take you up on your offer," she said suddenly as the song began to near its conclusion.

"Hm?" He had been staring rather intently at the pattern on the coat of a Cretan noble dancing nearby in an attempt to avoid making eye contact, but when she spoke up, Roy met her gaze out of instinct. "What offer was that?"

"To show me all the pubs I've forgotten while I've been away, of course. Which one is your favorite?"

"I, uh…" This sudden change of subject took him by surprise almost as much as her previous remark. For a moment he wondered if it was another attempt to make him trip up out of shock, but he was being far too careful after last time to slip up again, and this comment seemed much more innocuous by comparison. "My men and I usually go to one called the White Hart, but I don't think it's your type of-"

"It's settled, then. I'll meet you there tomorrow at eight. The summit will be in recess for the night after the talks end at six, in case you forgot."

He _had_ forgotten, but that was beside the point. _What kind of game is she playing? Is this a joke? A threat?_

"General, I don't think…"

His protest was cut short when the song ended, and along with the rest of the pairs of dancers on the floor, he was pulled into a bow over the applause of the crowd. Then Olivier was gone, vanished amid the spectators who were spilling out onto the dancefloor now that its purpose was done, and Roy was left standing alone and confused. A moment later Hawkeye and Breda were at his side, and the others were fighting their way through the mob to join them.

"What the hell just happened?" He asked, half to them, half to himself, not expecting an answer.

* * *

The reception drew to a close rather quickly after the final waltz. Little by little, the mindless cacophony of hundreds of drunken diplomats and soldiers gradually quieted as groups began to take their leave for the night, making their way further into Central Command to their quarters if they were Amestrisian or outside to a long line of waiting cars if they hailed from abroad. In one of the musicians' galleries far above the crowded hall, though, one figure lingered longer than any other, watching the chamber slowly empty through the slits of his demon mask. When he was finally certain that he was alone, with nothing but moonlight and dimming candles left as his companions, he stepped out of the shadows and threw back the hood of his black robe, setting the mask aside.

Anyone still lingering who glanced his way might have commented on the strange effect he seemed to have on the air around him- the way it shimmered and shifted like he was a brilliant flame, or a desert mirage. But that was only perceptible if someone's gaze lingered on him, and by now he was skilled at avoiding unwanted attention. In a single bound he leapt from the balcony to one of the rafters that stretched across the width of the hall, crimson hair billowing behind him. From this vantage point, a massive, circular window located directly above the throne offered a view of almost the entire city, still aglow with lights even at this hour. Sitting crosslegged on the thick wooden beam, he smiled softly to himself, and took in the view with eyes as black as midnight.

* * *

 _ **And so the journey- and the mystery- begins. Next chapter will be Ed, followed by Al! Please feel free to leave your comments or questions in the reviews below, any and all feedback is helpful! As a note on the military ranks, since "Brigadier general" and "Liutenant colonel" are unwieldy to type out in full, I'm mostly going to be shortening them to "General" and "Colonel" in dialogue between characters when it comes to Roy, Alex, and Miles, as you saw above.**_


End file.
